


Cold Remedy

by Angelike



Category: Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Challenge Response, Community: 10_prompts, Fluff, Humor, Incest, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-16
Updated: 2008-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelike/pseuds/Angelike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murtagh is miserable. Eragon is in denial. Saphira is amused: humans can be so silly sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Remedy

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in response to the "Kiss" prompt for the 10_prompts livejournal community

Even magic couldn't cure the common cold – or at least not the kind of magic Dragon Riders were most adept at, a fact which Eragon found utterly baffling since one would think doing away with a cough and a sniffle would be a relatively small matter compared to mending broken bones and stitching flesh back together, but that was magic for you. Magic didn't have to make sense. Magic just _was_.

Murtagh had tried to explain the intricacies of the matter to him earlier, but Eragon had been too distracted by his brother's fever-flushed cheeks and glossy eyes to pay much heed to his miserable murmur – and, anyway, from what little he _had_ picked up from the somewhat garbled account of magical theory, he wouldn't have understood even if he had been paying attention, so what did it matter? His brother was making even less sense than magic that day. It was actually kind of...

»Adorable.«

**»And what, pray tell, do you find so adorable?«** Saphira inquired, her knowing chuckle inspiring a blush. It seemed Murtagh wasn't the only one with muddled senses today, if he was allowing his musings to unknowingly spill over to his dragon. **»Somehow I don't think your thoughts are focused on your cooking.«**

»And why not? Maybe I find the sight of wild hare roasting on a spit quite _adorable_,« Eragon shot back, annoyed at being read so easily.

**»If your thoughts were where they should be, you wouldn't be ruining your dinner.«**

»What are you talking about? Dinner is just fi—«

“Eragon! Eragon, what are you doing? Our dinner is on fire!”

Eragon's eyes widened, and – with Saphira's laughter ringing in his ears – he jerked his attention away from the travel bag he had been shifting aimlessly through for the past five minutes and back to the fire he should have been tending just in time to see Murtagh swipe the flaming hare off the cook-fire and quickly douse the flames. His haste was for naught: the hare was as crisp as could be. Murtagh looked up and shot him a baleful glare, which would have been a lot more effective had his eyes not been watering profusely – irritated, no doubt, by the smoke and fumes – and his nose running. Honestly, the angry young man looked more like a petulant child than the fearsome Red Rider.

_Would he kill me_, Eragon pondered, _if I held out a handkerchief and offered to help him blow his nose?_ Luckily he wasn't quite suicidal enough to try it, though the thought made him feel strangely...

** »Horny?«** Saphira offered helpfully.

»Quiet, you!« Eragon commanded, wondering (not for the first time) what he could have possibly done in a past life to deserve a dragon with (heaven forbid!) _a sense of humor_. »If I wanted your opinion, I'd ask for it.«

Saphira snorted. **»Suit yourself. Thorn and I have a little hunting of our own to do, anyway. But before I go, might I suggest you think about _why_ you're so_ ... fascinated_ by Murtagh in his current sick and helpless state?«**

And then Saphira was gone, the wind picking up as she launched herself into the air – Thorn, of course, following after – having left the two human boys to do as they would in their absence. Eragon was a wee bit miffed at being abandoned before he could demand to know just what Saphira meant (“Crazy dragon,” he muttered lowly), but there was still an angry Murtagh to pacify and so the matter of Saphira's insanity would just have to wait. Fascinated, indeed!

“Eragon,” Murtagh said lowly, voice scratchy with illness, “why is it I can't leave you without some sort of trouble befalling you? I wasn't even gone ten minutes.”

“I—er...”

“Idiot! And just what do you expect us to do about dinner? In case you hadn't noticed, I'm in no condition to—” Here Murtagh broke off, words giving way to a fit of coughing that left him gasping and wheezing for breath. Concerned, Eragon rushed forward and helped him settle down on the makeshift stool at the fire's edge, careful to keep him out of the line of smoke. Soothingly he ran his hand in a circular motion across his friend's back, waiting for his trembling to calm. Wearily, Murtagh leaned back into his touch.

Eragon's heart pounded.

“I'm sorry for setting our dinner on fire,” he said quietly. “You're right: I'm an idiot. You just rest, and I'll fix us something else to eat.” He smiled wanly, and lifted the charcoaled hare from the ground. “Mayhap there is enough salvageable meat for a stew?”

Murtagh sighed, eyes softening. “I just can't stay mad at you, can I?”

“Nope!” Eragon said impishly, smile widening with relief: he was forgiven. “I'm just that lovable.” And with that, the matter was closed.

As luck would have it, some of the meat _was_ still suitable enough for a decent soup when combined with some of their remaining rations (they were going to have to risk making a foray into a town very soon, there was no helping it) and before long Eragon had their cooking pot simmering over the flames. This time, he vowed, he would be extra cautious – and not just because Murtagh was gazing at him through those dark eyelashes, looking more than a little sleepy and so very vulnerable...

Eragon coughed nervously (Saphira was right, there_ was _something _wrong_ with him!)and adverted his gaze, attacking the soup with his stirring spoon perhaps a little more vigorously than was required. His blood was rushing to more than just his cheeks, and he was suddenly grateful for the autumn chill in the air that necessitated the use of cloaks. If Murtagh had noticed his predicament, he never would have survived the humiliation!

“Something wrong?”

“Oh—no, not at all,” he stammered. He wasn't going to look up. Just stir, Eragon. Just stir.

He could feel Murtagh's eyes on him: cold, calculating. Muddled he may be, but he was suspicious by nature. He could probably figure things out, if given half a chance.

“You know,” he started by way of distraction, “maybe it's not such a bad thing – that we're having soup tonight, I mean. Soup is supposed to be an excellent cold remedy. Especially since I used garlic.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. The heat of the soup is supposed to be pretty soothing on a sore throat – plus, it'll help clear up congestion. And don't ask me why, but garlic is supposed to be a pretty potent medicine.”

“So, when did you become a healer?” Murtagh chuckled.

Eragon ducked his head bashfully. “It's just an old folk remedy. My – our – uncle used to give me chicken soup whenever I came down with a cold. It always made me feel a lot better, though I was never sure whether it was because of the soup itself or...” He trailed off. Years had passed, and the memory of his loss was still raw – but at least he _had_ memories. Murtagh had never even had a chance to meet their mother's kindly brother. And somehow he doubted anyone had held vigil over his elder brother's bedside when he fell ill.

“Or the love put into it?” Murtagh finished, voiced laced with sympathy – and just a trace of something else, something ... indecipherable.

“Yeah.” And then, after a moment's silence and a quick taste of the pot's contents: “Soup's done! And it's not that bad!”

“Shocking.”

“Har-dee-har. For that you're getting an extra ladle-full.” Eragon grumbled with exaggerated grumpiness and passed Muragh his bowl. “It's not chicken, but I'm sure it'll make you feel better.”

“Yes,” Murtagh agreed. “I'm sure it will.” Their fingers brushed. “After all, it was made with love, wasn't it?”

There were _sparks_.

Eragon jerked away with a shock, finally meeting his brother's eyes. His expression was shadowed. Unreadable. “Wh-what?” How could he—?

Murtagh shrugged, and turned to his food.

Eragon had little choice but to do the same, skin still tingling strangely where they had touched. Covertly studying his seemingly careless companion, Eragon wished it wasn't such a breach of ethics to read someone's mind – and then promptly turned around and thanked whatever deity that might be listening that it _was_ when he remembered that this would mean Murtagh would be free to invade his innermost thoughts as well. That was one conversation he didn't want to have. Ever.

Some things should never be spoken of.

Saphira didn't know _anything_.

“So,” he said more to distract himself from his own depressing thoughts than anything else. Murtagh looked up expectantly. “I've heard of some other cold remedies you might try.” He grinned. “Some are a little ridiculous, of course, but hey!” He shrugged. “Leave no stone unturned and all that, right?”

Amused, Murtagh rolled his eyes. “Alright, I'll bite. Share with me your infinite wisdom, o mighty healer,” he said theatrically – and then ruined the atmosphere by blowing his nose.

Adorab— Er... Gross?

He really needed to stop this idiocy. This loathsome attraction was so much easier to ignore when his inner mother-hen wasn't on the fritz.

Distraction! Distraction! Distraction!

“Well, first, when you go to bed tonight you should sleep with your head to the west.”

“The west? Why west?”

“Heck if I know! Just something someone once told me.”

“Right.”

“Second, drink a mixture of coal oil and sugar.”

“Ew!”

“If you think that's gross, you could always drink tea made from hog's hooves.”

“You _must_ be joking!”

“You could also try tying dirty socks around your neck at night. When you lose the socks, you lose the cold.”

“Dirty socks,” Murtagh croaked and wheezed. “Now I _know_ you're joking! Where do you come up with this stuff?”

Eragon grinned, “I also have it on good authority that shaving your head and hanging the hairs on a bush will take care of that cough for you. When the birds carry the hairs away, they carry the cough with it.”

“Heaven forbid! If you touch my hair, I'll...”

“Well, we could always try smearing mashed potatoes on your chest...”

“I guess it's a good thing you used the last of the potatoes in this soup then, huh?”

“Huh. I'd forgotten. I guess we'll just have to try...”

And their playful banter continued through the remainder of dinner, leaving Murtagh looking significantly more lively – if still a bit drawn and tired – and Eragon gave himself a mental pat on the back for helping his friend feel better, if only for a while. True, he may find Murtagh's miserable state unnaturally appealing, but that has less to do with seeing him suffer and more about seeing him acting _human_. Ever since he'd managed to break away from Galbatorix, he'd been acting so distant and untouchable – like he was made of stone, perfect, unyielding, and not in need of help from anyone, _especially_ not Eragon. Eragon understood that the facade was just Murtagh's way of coping with everything that was happening, but still... It was nice to see that wasn't true.

“Well, I think I'm going to turn in for the night,” Murtagh said, stepping forward to hand Eragon his empty bowl. “If you think you can handle clean up by yourself...”

Eragon nodded. “Of course. You need your sleep.”

Murtagh wet his lips, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he was suppressing a smile. “There is one more thing I'd like to do – before bed.”

Eragon cocked his head to the side, quizzical. “Yeah?” Why did he feel like Murtagh was plotting something?

“It's nothing big – just a remedy I'd like to try. One that's probably as crazy as some of the ones you've been spouting off, but you said it yourself: leave no stone unturned.”

“You're kidding.”

Murtagh leaned down, so that his face was just inches from Eragon's, his breath hot across suddenly sensitized skin: “You're not the only one who knows a folk remedy or two.”

And then Murtagh's mouth was on his.

There were no bells and whistles, no fireworks and trumpets heralding True Love's First Kiss – just a gentle pressure, soft and fleeting, and battle-calloused fingers tracing a path down one cheek and across the tender flesh of his neck with astonishing care. The kiss was over all too soon, almost before Eragon's shock-addled brain managed to process what was happening, but still it was enough to send Eragon toppling from his precarious perch at the edge of the log-cum-stool he'd been sitting on. Dazed and confused he looked up at his quietly chuckling brother and demanded answers: “Wha—?”

Okay, so maybe all of his higher brain functions had crashed. So what? Situations like this didn't require eloquence. Murtagh seemed to understand, at any rate, though his response left much to be desired.

“Haven't you heard? The quickest way to cure a cold is to pass it on with a kiss.” He smiled innocently and shrugged. “I guess we'll know for sure whether that's true in the morning. Have a good night, Eragon.” And with that Murtagh turned heel and headed towards his bedroll.

Eragon was still lying in the dirt, wondering what kind of grass Murtagh had been smoking before he'd returned to camp and why the gods seemed to hate him so much, long after his brother's rasping breaths had settled into a more steady rhythm.

Not only was life a bitch, but she was also a tease.

 

* * *

 

When Eragon woke the next morning, he immediately wished for death – actually, come to think of it, he may have been dreaming of death before he ever even woke up considering the fact that he woke up _coughing and gasping for breath_. Everything ached. His eyes were burning so bad they were watering like a leaky dam against the brilliance of the morning sun. If this was what Murtagh had been feeling like, it was no wonder he'd been a bit moody.

“Good morning, Sunshine!”

Speak of the devil.

“What's so good about it?” he grumbled, glaring blearily up at the blurry Murtagh-shaped monster grinning down at him. The jerk certainly was chipper this morning.

“Well, for one thing, I'm feeling much better! The throat is still a little sore, but other than that...” Murtagh paused, smile fading. Then, with concern: “I say, Eragon. You look terrible!”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, seriously. Are you sick?”

Eragon groaned. “I want to roll over and die. What do you think?”

“Oh. Sorry.” A pause. Then, with an amused lilt to his voice: “Well, what do you know? You realize what this means, don't you?”

“You're going to leave me alone to get a few more hours of shut-eye?”

“The kiss actually worked! Amazing.”

Eragon glared. “In that case,” he ground out, “come here. You can have your cold back, because _I don't want it!_”

Murtagh threw his head back and laughed. “Nah-ah! No way! You're not getting any more kisses from me until _your_ cold is gone.”

“So it's okay for _you_ to kiss _me_ when _you're_ sick but not—” Eragon stopped, Murtagh's words sinking in, and he felt his anger fading, replaced by something that felt suspiciously like... Well, like hope. “You mean,” he continued softly, refusing to meet his brother's eyes, “you might be willing to kiss me again sometime? When I'm better?”

“Eragon, you idiot,” came the fond reply, “I'll kiss you until we both die of pleasure. Would you like that?”

Startled, Eragon looked up and was stunned to see the warmth in his brother's eyes – the thinly veiled lust. He shivered. “Yes...”

“Then you'd best get well soon, because Eragon?”

“Huh?”

“Now that I know you want me back I'm not going to _hold_ back. You're going to need your strength if you intend to survive what I'm going to do to you.”

Why did he get the feeling he didn't quite know what he just gotten himself into?

»Uh oh.«

Saphira's laughter echoed in his mind.


End file.
